Dealt Cards
by Coralfly
Summary: Two guys. A nightclub. Set in the future. Friendship. [Complete]


Disclaimer: The characters of Tristan DuGrey, Jess, Rory Gilmore, and any other characters portrayed in the television series "Gilmore Girls" do not belong to me. They are the property of the WB, Amy Sherman- Palladino and affiliates. In addition, poems used are _In a Station of the Metro _by Ezra Pound and _Fire and Ice _by Robert Frost. No copyright infringement is intended by their use.

  
Author's Note: A one-parter distraction as I mourn the loss of a disc. 

Dealt Cards

It was the third floor, balcony-like with chairs and tables and a railing to cling on and peer at the masses of people down below. The throb of music echoed in the recesses of his head. His ears hurt. Technicolored lights danced, a glaring glow in this dim world, as dry ice rose to the top leaving a smoky mist to hover over the grinding, waving, ever-moving persons on the lower levels. The third floor was surprisingly sparse in comparison and he sat on a table, at the edge, in a corner, nursing a drink.

Beer from a bottle.

After a moment's contemplation he lifted the bottle up and gave a silent toast to the world, before taking a swig. Then he took from his pocket, conveniently located at the inner side of his jacket, a book. A Penguin 60s Classic to be exact; slightly smaller than the size of a CD. _The Death of Ivan Ilyich. _

"A little light reading?"

He looked up at familiar eyes, and smirked. "Of course. So what took you so long?"

"I had to change."

Glancing critically at his friend's clothes, he quipped, "In the dark?"

"I like this shirt. And the band is good."

"The band is good," he agreed.

"But the shirt?"

"It's dark in here so it doesn't matter."

His friend shrugged at his insult and pulled out a chair before noisily plunking himself on top of it in an act of gracelessness. There was a bottle of beer in his friend's hand, which he also placed on the table. "Considering that it is dark, why are you reading? It's bad for your eyes."

"I was bored. And my eyes are fine. I don't have to wear glasses unlike some people."

"Then why are you carrying a book around? I thought I was the only one inclined to magic acts; making objects appear and disappear."

"It's a little something I picked up from someone I used to know."

"A girl."

"I didn't say that," he protested.

"You didn't need to say. Besides…" his friend paused, not so discreetly changing what he had initially planned to say, and with a knowing smile said instead, "It's almost always a girl when it comes to you."

"Like you're any better."

"That's why we're friends."

"Yes. Probably."

"Of course there's also our mutual inclination towards the dark-side of the force."

"Your uncle's influence is showing," he warned his friend.

"There's only so much of Star Wars, Star Trek, Dr.Who, V, Planet of the Apes and the likes, a person can take before they become brainwashed."

"Do your Spock imitation. It never fails to amuse."

His friend shook his head, leaned back against his chair and propped his feet up on the table. "Like I live to entertain you. I'm not one of your servants."

"It would pay better than your current job."

"I like what I do."

"And what exactly is it again?"

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. At least I'm not stuck behind some desk in a job I hate, following in the footsteps of a father I hate."

"Well, I could always buy this nightclub and you could come be my bartender. I can see the scantily clad girls swarming the bar trying to get your attention. And we could spend the rest of our lives here at this table, drinking beer."

"I'd drink the beer," his friend amended, "You'd have to drink a scotch or whiskey. Maybe a martini. Wine, if you were entertaining one of those high-classed...uh...ladies."

"You were going to call them something other than ladies," he noted with some amusement.

"According to the OED, I don't think some of them could accurately be described as ladies. They are only after your name and your money."

"And the little trinkets I might buy them."

"Yes, mustn't forget those precious baubles." His friend turned then, so that a blob of dark brown was all he could see. 

"What are you looking at?"

"The apparition of these faces in the crowd; petals on a wet, black bough."

"Pound."

His friend clapped, slow and mocking. "So they did teach you something in the army."

"It was military school. And I'm surprised you managed to learn anything at school, considering the fact you never went."

"I was bored. Genius child that I was. Alas, society did me a great injustice by failing to recognize my true brilliance and I withered in the confines of a harsh, unbending educational system."

"Wow. Big words. At least bigger than your norm. I'm impressed. Have you been reading the thesaurus again?"

"Damn. You caught me out." Casually, his friend reached into his own jacket and pulled out a bag of tobacco, paper and a lighter.

"I thought you quit," he admonished.

"I did. For a while. But now I'm into rolling. There's less chemicals, y'know. They don't give me the headaches like the normal ones do."

"You're going to die of lung or throat cancer."

"We're all going to die." Quickly and efficiently his friend placed some tobacco on top of the paper before he began rolling and then licking. "Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice." A tall burst of flame sprung out as the lighter was ignited, dancing to and fro as his friend lit his cigarette.

"Now Frost?"

"You were the one who was reading Tolstoy."

"Who would have you preferred? Dostoyevsky? Chekov?"

"All Russians? Tut, tut. Where's your sense of patriotism?"

"Fine. Melville? Crane? Hawthorne? Salinger? Steinbeck? Hemmingway? Faulkner? DeLillo?" 

"You're lacking in female authors there."

"Okay. Morrison? Wharton? Woolf? The Brontes? Shelley? Atwood? Austen?'

"How about Gilmore?" His friend suggested, tossing a book on the table.

"Rory Gilmore," he read out loud the author's name. Carefully he picked up the book and inspected it, opening the cover to the first page. "Dedicated to the other Lorelai."

"So?" his friend asked him, waiting for a reaction.

"It's something," was all he could manage as he idly flipped the pages. A grin crept on his face as he quickly pocketed the book, "Thanks for the gift."

"That's my copy."

"I'm, as you would say, borrowing it."

"It is theft."

"Tell that to your lawyer."

"You are my lawyer," his friend reminded him.

"Well then, it looks like you have a problem."

"So wanna play a game of poker?" From his all-encompassing pocket, his friend pulled out a pack of cards.

"Five a hand?"

"Fine with me."

"I was talking five hundred a hand," he smirked.

"Du-uGre-ey."

"Just deal, Jess. And quit your whining."

"Whatever. I think I need another bottle of beer."

The quiet shuffle of cards could not be heard amongst the raucous that was the music. Cigarette smoke mingled with the dry ice. The clink of glass could be heard as one or both friends lifted up their bottles for a drink. Lights continued to glare, although they still provide no real light against the darkness. Cards were dealt and the game commenced. 


End file.
